New friend, old enemy
by SasakiKouishi
Summary: Sherlock and John have settled into a simple daily life with ghastly murders as job, severed limps in the kitchen and love in the flat. So what happens when someone with bonds with a bit too many of their acquaintances moves into 221C?
1. Prologue  A quiet morning

_I have to admit, this is my first fanfiction in years, and I'm quite sure it's easy to see... It's not beta'ed, but I have been through it a few times, so the most embarrassing mistakes should be gone by now. Have fun, and please enjoy. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock in any way, if I did, Sarah would not exist... _

**Johns p.o.v.:**

It was just another day as 221B Baker Street, an early Tuesday morning in the warm summer. John woke up, as any other morning in his anything but ordinary life, with the anything but ordinary Sherlock Holmes cuddling around him, his long form entangled in him, finding himself warm and safe, very warm in fact, to warm for comfort. He had been in the scoring heat of Afghanistan, but nothing could beat the sultry summer in London, where the boiling heat was interrupted by heavy downpours in a matter of minutes, and with Sherlock emitting warm like a heater on a bad day, it couldn't get much hotter. John shifted a bit, trying to remove a bit of the cover, then trying to free himself from Sherlocks arms, just a little bit, but it didn't help, Sherlock held him, and not even in his sleep would he let go. He sighed, since Sherlock wouldn't let go, he would at least get as much out of the situation as possible and mannered to free himself enough to turn around and pull Sherlock closer to him again and went back to sleep.

When he wakes up again, it's to Sherlock kissing him along the jaw, just soft butterfly kisses.

"Good morning Sherlock." He turns to give Sherlock a soft kiss on the lips, which gladly was accepted.

"3 minutes and 12 seconds, your best time to date." John doesn't answer, just keeping a stern eye on Sherlock, whom is lien beside him, sharing the same pillow, his hair even more unruly then normally and clearly showing the previous nights fun.

"Not good?" Sherlock's expression is somewhere between curious and concerned. John sighed, somewhat happy, before grapping Sherlock by the waist, and flipping unto his back, pulling Sherlock on top of him.

"Its fine, but I would have preferred a good morning first." He slides a hand into Sherlocks curly mob of hair, and pulled him down for a kiss, a bit deeper and more passionate than a normal good morning kiss.

"No case today?" John asked when they parted again, Sherlock laying his head on John's chest, listening to his heart.

"Finished it yesterday." Sherlock ran his hand along Johns well developed muscles, it has been less than a year since they meet, but john was just as fit as before he had to leave Afghanistan.

"Yes, Lestrade wants a statement at some point today." He gasped slightly, when he felt Sherlocks hand running lower.

"Later." Sherlock answered, and started kissing his way over John's chest, making John moan in delight.

After John had stopped working at the surgery and broken up with Sarah, shortly after their encounter with Moriarty, and started working full time with Sherlock, the mutual trust and friendship had developed into a strong, new, relationship. They matched each other perfectly, and Lestrade had even started referring to them as 'the pair' and started calling them in earlier on cases, which looked interesting. John had even started working forensics for the police, when there was nothing else to do. Sherlock didn't mind, since it gave him an excuse to visit the morgue more often. It didn't, however, stop Donavan and Anderson from disliking them.

John entered the kitchen after a short bath, to find the kettle already boiling, and two mugs standing ready on the table. Even if Sherlock wasn't fond of making tea, he didn't mind doing this little gesture once in the while. John quickly found the tea, poured sugar and milk in the right amounts in the mugs, made the tea, before taking them into the living room, handling one of them to Sherlock, whom, again, was working on Johns laptop. He didn't bother to comment on it anymore, he just sat down in his chair, and looked out the window while enjoying his tea. The traffic on Baker Street was as dull as always, and he was about to leave his chair in favour of the sofa, when a car pulled up, and stopped in front of 221B. It was a plain car, nothing fancy which Mycroft would have sent for them, and the men that stepped out of the car, were ratter plain as well. They took a few boxes and some dress bags and walked to the door, which Mrs. Hudson must have opened for them.

"Has somebody moved into 221C?" He couldn't hear the men downstairs.

"Yes, last week in fact." Sherlock had moved to stand behind him, when he had asked.

"But the tenant itself hasn't shown up yet." He laid his arms around John, supported himself against the chair.

"It's not those guys then?" The two men had walked out again, entered the car and driven away.

"No. Those were just paid to move the stuff into the apartment, and make it ready for the tenant."

"How..?" John sat up, making himself comfortable against Sherlock and the chair.

"Simple, a tenant would have a key; they had to wait for Mrs. Hudson to open, so they can't be the tenant. And the tenant is a woman, judged by the dress bags, they was far too long for it to be a man's cloth."

It was just about midday before anything else happened. John had moved to the sofa, taking his computer with him, and was updating his blog, when Sherlock got a call from Lestrade: there was a new case for them.


	2. A newcomer

_Still not beta'ed..._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock in any way, if I did, Sarah would not exist... _

**Elisabeth's p.o.v.:**

In another part of town, more specific, at New Scotland Yard, a woman walked to the front desk.

"Excuse me, can you tell me where I can find DI Lestrade, I was asked to meet him here today." The man behind the desk looked shortly at her, before he found a slip of paper, but he didn't give it to her.

"Would you mind telling me your name first?"

"Oh yes off course, it's Elisabeth M. Ross." She quickly found her driving licence, so he could check her identity. He took it, looked at it, and handled it back to her.

"DI Lestrade had to leave for a crime scene, but he left an address, and asked us to drive you to it. Wait here a moment, and I'll find an officer to drive you." Elisabeth nodded, and the man shortly disappeared, before he came back together with an officer. He greeted her, but didn't say much else; he just drove her to the scene.

The crime scene was in the inner city of London, and Elisabeth couldn't see anything because of the horde of people, which had gathered to get a look at the scene. She signed, before she quickly removed the dust which had appeared on her dress from the ride in the not-to-clean car. She hadn't expected to go to a crime scene today, so she was wearing a floor long dress, with long sleeves and a high neck. It was a tight fit, which didn't leave much to the fantasy, apart from waist down, where the scarlet and golden silk the dress was made of waved around her legs. She wasn't a jacket today, she had decided to take her handbag with her instead, and was wearing long leather boots with high heels. Her long, white hair, was collected in a ponytail, and was waving down her back. Even in the heat of summer, she was still wearing her long, white silk gloves. She started to walk through the hordes of humans, making her heels click against the asphalt, making people stand aside and form a path to the police tape. When she walked through, with her heels clicking, and stance of military, people started to go silent, and when she arrived at the police tape, everybody around her was silent, even the journalists standing nearby, so she easily cached the attention of a police officer.

"Excuse me, could I get you to find Di Lestrade for me? He asked me to meet him here." The officer disappeared quickly into a nearby house, and Elisabeth had to wonder if Lestrade had told them to look out for her. While she was waiting, two men walked through the horde of humans, just like her, and stood to wait next to her, not looking at her, talking to one another.

"I wonder where Donovan is." The shorter of them muted. The officer came back a few seconds later, but she didn't look at Elisabeth, she looked the two newcomers and frowned.

"Freak. What are you doing here?"

"I was called here to help." The officer didn't answer; she just lifted the tape, and signed for Elisabeth to follow her. She docked under the tape, and followed the two men and the officer into the house. Inside was the first well-known face she had seen all day.

"The freak is her, and so is your guest." The officer pointed at her, before walking further into the house.

"Long time, no see." She didn't give Lestrade time to react, before she gave him a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Do you still prefer to be called Lestrade?" She couldn't help study him a bit, his hair had few more gray strains then she was used to, but overall, he didn't look much older, and for some reason, he looked less stressed.

"Yes, long time no see, Elisabeth. Glad to have you back." He hugged her back.

"Oh thank you. So what's today's job? Can I have a look?" She smiled slightly flirting at him.

"That one won't work with me; try it on some of the other guys." Lestrade smiled at her. She was still a bit smaller than him, even with her heels on.

"No way, they'll actually think I'm flirting with them. So can I have a look?" she pouted a bit, before giving him a hopeful glance.

"Hah..." Lestrade couldn't help but sigh; it was have a younger sister with Elisabeth around him.

"Yes, please do. Maybe you can find something our expert can't." He turned around and walked into the house with a hopeful grin.

"It's in the living room." He noted, walking into the room, where a small amount of people already was gathered. She quickly took the room in. It was a quite big living room for an apartment, which this seemed to be. There was two windows facing the front, but the curtains were shut. In the middle was a chair, with the victim sitting in it. The apartment seemed inhabited, but there was a thin layer of dust on the nearby shelve. A busy women then, since her floors was mostly clean. In the room were, apart from herself and Lestrade, four other humans: the two which had walked past her before, the officer from before and someone whom looked like an idiot. No stance and an aura which emitted only idiocy, a man made to put others of. She had to sigh, before turning to the victim and the person examining it

"So, since when did you start getting help from outside the Yard? Really, it doesn't seem like the Lestrade I remember, less proud, but so much more effective. I like it." She smiled at him, before turning her attention to the victim. The people around the room seemed to have notice her by now, even the high man with the curly hair.

"For a few years now..." He was interrupted by the idiot-looking man.

"Who are you?" He said, looking dump.

"You really aren't the sharpest knife in the drawer, are you? I'm Elisabeth, and I'm here to help." She wondered if it sounded too much like an insult, but didn't bother wondering for too long. She walked further into the room, and started to stare at the victim. It was a lady in her thirties, killed with a single gunshot through her heart, but there wasn't much blood at the scene. She took a quicker look over at a few other things, before turning to the smaller of the two unknown men.

"You must be Doctor John Watson, right? Can you tell me how long have she's been death?" The doctor looked dump fooled at her.

"How...? Never mind, about three days, but it's hard to say in this heat." She looked properly at him now. She wasn't used to not having to explain. Something about him reminded her of something. She quickly ran through her memories.

"Afghanistan, one year ago, shoulder wound, shot in action." She rapidly fired of, mostly for her own sake. Everybody was staring at her now, not just looking like before, plainly staring.

"Never mind, three days you say? Are you sure?" John nodded, getting his expression under control. She straightened up; she had to bow down to look nearly at the corpus.

"First day back and I ran into a sadist of a murderer, now that's just my luck." She muted to herself again.

"Sadist?" It was the officer this time. Elisabeth looked at Lestrade to get an introduction.

"Sergeant Donovan." He just said.

"Ah... Are all your people that slow? I did expect the level to rise a bit while I was gone." She couldn't help biting a bit at people today, she hadn't expected to actually get to work today, and she hadn't gotten enough sleep to deal with the rather slow personal of the Yard.

"The murder didn't take place here; the murderer has been back multiple times and has spent quite some time around the victim, after her death. He's approximately 1.8 meter tall, slim, into fashion, and quite popular in this area." Sherlock interrupted them, getting bored by their talking. Now it was Sherlock which was the subject for everybody's glance, apart from John and Elisabeth off course.

"He's a travelling hairdresser and beautician." Elisabeth supplied, studying the well done nails of the victim.

"Come have a look Lestrade," She signed for him to come near, while she kneeled down on the floor in front of the victim, careful not to destroy any evidence.

"This type of nail art normally takes at least five hours to do, at least, look at all the layers and decorations, the fine strokes, precise laid, and it'll usually take at least two visits to a beautician to get it perfect. And it's not even completely hardened yet. A good nail polish takes about half an hour to dry and 3 hours to harden, multiple layers takes at least 12 hours; this one is no more than half that old. And the hair, look at the hair. So neatly done, it's impossible to tell from it that she collapsed after being shot. And there's no blood on her cloth or on the floor, so she must have been killed somewhere else, but not too far away, it would be impossible to get a body into this apartment without catching attention. Have a look at her bathroom, you'll properly find that to be the real crime scene. And have a look at her cloth; it's clearly her own, see so well it fit her, like she has brought it herself. You'll properly find fingerprints from the murderer on her closet. Did I miss something?" She looked at Sherlock, which already seemed bored again, yet fascinated.

"No, you got it right." He answered, studying her.

"Good." She quickly reached into her handbag, finding her purse and handled a business card to Lestrade.

"It's properly this man you are looking for, he has been the only travelling hairdresser and beautician in London for years. He knows every street of London, and is perfectly well-known in the entire city, among women off course." She turned to face Sherlock.

"Mister Sherlock Holmes I presume. I'm glad to finally meet you." She rose from the floor, but didn't dust of her dress for once.

"It seems like we'll get to work together in the future. Now, before I present myself, would you like to try deluding me?" She smiled sweetly at him, much like a child looking for a treat. Sherlock shoot her an amazing glance, Elisabeth could almost feel his intense glance and hear his brain work.

"You are an old friend of Lestrade, old childhood friend I presume, you have had a military career, been in Afghanistan, wounded in action and send back because of it, been travelling for some time, and is raised in a rich home." Elisabeth smiled at him, clearly satisfied; she looked almost ready to hug him, but decided against it.

"Old friend of Lestrade, yes, childhood friend, yes, I'm his cousin. Military, yes, Afghanistan, yes, wounded, yes, through not exactly in action. I haven't been travelling, just visiting a sister in Sweden, and a rich kid, yes. Would you care to tell the audience how you got those results?" She quickly pointed at Donovan, Anderson and John.

"Your way of talking with Lestrade suggests a good, old friendship. Your stance says military and you seem to know John from Afghanistan, even though he doesn't seem to remember you. Wounded in action; you are constantly gripping your left arm, as if something hurts. The travelling was a guess; you have multiple different foreign currencies in your wallet, so you must have been overseas. Rich kid, come on, that dress is made of silk, and you walk in it as if you never had been doing anything else." Elisabeth smiled at him, but couldn't help noticing Johns clearly admiring look, when he glanced at Sherlock.

"Oh, so correct. I'm Elisabeth M. Ross, I have just jointed the Yard again, as a DI." She walked forward, to shake his hand, pulling him near, so she could whisper something to him.

"Now, go get a room, you two clearly haven't had enough fun today." She smiled at him when she pulled away, and walked back to Lestrade, leaving a speechless Sherlock, whom quickly pulled himself together, and headed outside again, with John following closely behind him.


	3. Dinner with a neighbour

_Disclaimer: I don't own anybody, just borrowing to play around with for a while._

John's p.o.v.:

Later that evening, home at 221B, John sat at the sofa with his laptop resting on the armrest, using one hand to flip through pictures from Afghanistan. Sherlock had placed himself with his head in Johns lap, his long figure resting on the rest of the ever to short sofa, eyes closed. Johns other hand was placed in his hair, mindlessly playing with the curls, keeping his attention to the pictures on the computer. Finally, he closed the laptop, sighed, and sat back in the sofa.

"I can't find her in any of the pictures, and I can't recall her either." Sherlock didn't answer, just opened his eyes, looking at John. John let his now free hands run along Sherlocks jaw, just a light touch, before letting them massage Sherlocks scalp, tugging lightly at the curly hair, making him sigh in delight. Sherlock lifted his arms, and pulled John down for a short kiss.

"Will you deduce her for me?" John asked when they separated again. Sherlock just nodded, relaxing into Johns lap and careful hands again.

"She was in Afghanistan at the same time as you, judged by the lack of tan. Her arm seemed to hurt, so she must have been shot as well, possible about the same time, properly sent back about the same time as well. She has experience with crime scenes, respect even."

"Respect?" John tugged a bit in Sherlocks hair again, enjoying the small moans from Sherlock he got in return.

"Respect, yes. She was wearing high heels, but her heels didn't sound when she was walking inside." Sherlock sat up, turning to face John.

"When you step, no matter how careful you are, you'll always make a sound and a small jolt in the floor, but she didn't."

"Me?" John looked a bit hurt at Sherlock. Sherlock just threw his hands in the air.

"Anyone, everyone, does. Even the smallest fly does, but she didn't. She walked soundlessly."

"It can be a very effective ability to have." John and Sherlock quickly turned to the halfway closed door. Two small knocks and the door was pushed open.

"You should remember to close the door, if you don't want people interrupting you." Elisabeth was standing in the door, in the same outfit as earlier.

"Next time you want information, just ask." She stood still in the doorway, but she didn't seem to be bothered by them talking about her, even though she made it sound like it.

"What are you doing here?" John had risen from the sofa; his face slightly blushed from being caught.

"Oh, to present myself, isn't that what good neighbours does? I have moved into 221C. Haven't Mrs. Hudson told you? She seems like the type to run with gossip." She thought that thought though again, before continuing.

"I came here to invite the two of you for supper, I've made soup, and there's just too much for one person. Mrs Hudson will come as well."

A few minutes later were Sherlock and John standing in 221C. The apartment had been dramatically changed since they last saw it. The living room had a soft, scarlet, carpet, the walls was a soft mix of beige and white. The room was simply designed, with a sofa, a few chairs, a bookshelf with a mix of scientific, medicinal and books in languages John didn't know of, as well as a harp. Elisabeth had stepped out, to change cloth, and asked them to make themselves comfortable while waiting. Sherlock used the time at inspection the apartment, John just stood at the door, trying to let his brain catch up with the day's experiences. A cousin to Lestrade had turned up at the scene, deluded what Sherlock hadn't have time to say, turned up to be their neighbour, and invited them to supper.

"I'm sorry for the wait." Elisabeth walked into the room again, this time wearing a sleeveless shirt with a high neck, long pants, as well as long silk gloves, which ended just above the elbow. On both her upper arms were the clear scars from gunshots.

"Mrs Hudson should be here in a minute." She walked through the room and into the kitchen, which had the same size as John and Sherlocks, but there was one major different: no experiments and body parts. John had followed her into the kitchen, again, standing by the door. She walked to the stove, where the soup was boiling.

"Okay, you have questions?" She didn't turn to look at him, just started to set the table.

"Should we take some of them now, and leave the rest to after dinner?"

"How did you know our names?" John didn't move from his spot.

"Simple, I'm Lestrade's cousin, remember? He knew I'll get to work with the two of you at some point, so he quickly described the two of you for me some time ago. Mind getting some glasses, they are in the cupboard over there." She pointed at a cupboard, before returning to the stove. John found the glasses and put them on the table.

"Why are you doing this?" Elisabeth turned to look at him, her otherwise very pale skin, slightly blushed.

"That's a bit embarrassing actually, at least for me. I have never lived in an apartment before. As young, I lived in the countryside, later I lived in a villa with my sister, then my trip to Afghanistan, and when recovering, I lived at a good friend's house in the countryside. He couldn't be there all the time, but it was quite nice and relaxed for recovering. So it's my first time living so near others, so I wanted a good start. Is that wrong?" To John's surprise, Elisabeth seemed rather unsure about the subject.

"It's... its fine." He had to chuckle a bit, at this point, she reminded of a teenager whom just had moved out. While they had talked, Sherlock had walked into the kitchen as well, together with Mrs Hudson.

"I'm here dear. They door was open, so I just came in." She quickly walked to help set the food on the table.

"I let the door be open for that reason. Thank you for looking after the soup, it's done perfectly. It seems really tasty." Elisabeth sat the pot on the table, and quickly supplied with the soup meat and bread.

"Homemade beef soup with fresh bread, directly from the baker. Now please sit down and enjoy the dinner."

Dinner was quietly enjoyed, with the bit chat back and thought, and soon, Sherlock, John and Elisabeth was sitting in the living room, enjoying a cup of tea, Mrs Hudson had left, saying something about a phone call and a sister.

"I appreciate you were willing to postpone the questions. I guess both of you have quite a few. Why don't we just start it, John?" She turned to him, sitting in a chair opposite to John and Sherlock, whom was sitting in the sofa.

"Yes. You seemed to remember me from Afghanistan, but I have to say, I can't recall you, and I can't find you on any of the pictures."

"Ah, yes." She rested her cup on her knee while talking.

"For the pictures, I have always hated to have my pictures taken, but I am in a few, but you properly weren't able to recognize me, because you most likely were looking for my white hair. My hair was covered up the most of the time, because the white colour made me easy to see, and I refuse to cut or colour it. Yes, it's my natural colour. I only talked with you once when we were in Afghanistan; I was in a vehicle which was hit by a roadside bomb. I didn't get any serious wounds, only a small one over my eye." She lifted her hand and let a finger trace a nearly invincible white scar from her eyebrow, down over her left eye, and out toward her ear.

"It didn't reach my eye, but it was deep enough to leave a small scar. You treated it, though it doesn't surprise me you can't remember it, there were people more seriously wounded then me. So, time passed by, the wound quickly healed, I stayed in Afghanistan, and didn't see you again before both of us were shot. We were transported back at the same time." She rose from her seat to fetch an album from her bookshelf, and found a picture from Afghanistan. It was a picture over all the people that were stationed in the camp at that time. She gave it to John, before pointing at him in the picture, with a still glove covered finger.

"There are you, and that's me." She moved her hand to point at a uniformed woman, which at first glance seemed to be black haired.

"My hair was covered, as I said earlier. I doubt I'm on many other pictures, but you can take a look through them if you want to."

"No, this is fine. Thank you." John flashed a brilliant smile at her.

"Why are you here?" Elisabeth turned to look at Sherlock.

"What? Can't you deduce that? I can't see that should be very hard to do." She smiled a generous smile at him, looking forward to his deluding. Sherlock leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands under the chin, deluding her.

"You're quite wealthy, so you don't need to live in a small apartment like this..."

"The apartment has a good size, and I quite like Mrs. Hudson." Elisabeth interrupted, sitting back in her chair and sipping her tea.

"... So you must have a reason to choose something like this. The fact you had the moving carried out without us notching it until quite late in the process, implies you wanted to carry out the moving as silence as possible, so, hiding from something. Someone wants' you dead? Nah, you're rich, you could just have hired a bodyguard, or even an assassin and you would have one with you, even while living at a place like this. So, hiding is a strong reason, but why? An old lover? But you just came home from Sweden, had it been that bad, you could just have stayed overseas, and again, a bodyguard. So, wanting some freedom before something inevitable, a forced marriage maybe? It's a strong possibility, since you're of a rich, maybe even noble, family. Deduction: being allowed some freedom before marriage."

"Beautiful, beautiful, you came so close it's almost scary. You were wrong at some points unfortunately." Elisabeth took the album from John and found another picture. It was a bit older than the other ones, taken by a professional photographer, and showed a family of four in front of a huge copper beech.

"This is the last picture I have of my family while it was still whole. It's taken when I was 18 years of age, and my younger sister was 16 years. Our parents passed away only a month after this, when our house was burned to the ground by someone with a grudge against our father. So I have nobody to force me into marriage. I am of noble family yes, but it's been a few generations since that had any meaning. No old lover, no one is after me, but I did chose to live alone for some time before getting married. You see, my lover proposed to me before I left for Sweden, and I told him I wanted to live alone for some time, before getting married, so he arranged for me to move in here, while I still was aboard. I came back only yesterday. My sister asked for me to come live with her, but I want to live alone for some time, so I'm going to meet her tomorrow instead."

"Congratulation, I'm sure your parents would be proud." John smiled at her, while handling back her photo.

"Thank you."

"So, shot twice in both arms with a precision only a good sniper can pull off, but it's clean through, not shattering any bones, just tissue and muscles. Why did you need so long time to recover?" Sherlock clearly wasn't satisfied just yet.

"Not twice, I was hit four times at close range. Once in each arm and twice in the stomach, luckily was the only thing hit my uterus, leaving me unable to have children, but at least able to live." Elisabeth wasn't very comfortable talking about this topic. There were different methods if she wanted to have children, but she still wasn't ready to tell about why she was shot. John could see her discomfort, and decided it was time for a change of topic.

"So, Elisabeth, what do you think of the area?" he offered. Elisabeth gladly changed the topic.

"I haven't had the time to have a look at it yet, I came back from Sweden just yesterday."

The rest of the evening quickly went by with talking mostly about cases and the local area.


	4. Sallys breakdown

_A/N: I think I forgot to say nothing is brit-picked and everything is unbeta'ed._

_Disclaimer: Do not own etc etc etc_

John's p.o.v.:

Weeks passed by with no interesting cases and Sherlock got more and more frustrated, or rather, more and more bored. John did his best at keeping him occupied, but not even he could keep him busy all the time, so both the floor and the wall had taken more than one beating, with both the gun, which John did his best to hide; but it was getting harder since all the best hiding places had been used by now, he even considered asking Elisabeth if he could hid it in her apartment, and chemicals from various experiments. Impressively Elisabeth haven't yet visited them to complain, and neither had Mrs. Hudson, it seemed like those two kept each other busy with tea and even shopping, despite Mrs Hudson's bad hip. She had been over to invite them for tea or supper a few times, talking Afghanistan with John, and cases with Sherlock. It could keep him occupied for some time, so John could get a break.

Lestrade had been there with a few cold cases, none of them taking Sherlocks attention for more than a few hours. Even Elisabeth had been there with a few. When she wasn't working with Lestrade or some other DI, she took care of cold cases. She had explained her status once, being a moveable DI, or JDI, as she had called it, a Joker, which could be attached to different DI's when some cases started to grow cold or seemed difficult, she could even take a case on by herself in times with too many open cases. It was a position made especial for her. She had a superior status to the DIs, but didn't bother to use it, since she didn't have problems putting herself in respect.

These periods had some good use through. They would use more time together, as an actually pair, they went out to eat once in a while, not in the usually stake-out style, where they ended up running in the middle of the dinner. John would even get Sherlock to sleep and eat more often, letting him get some well needed rest before the next case, and quite some time was spent in the bed, cuddling, often after a long night of shagging.

They would occasionally go bother Molly at Barts or Lestrade at the Yard, and when he wasn't too busy with paperwork, he didn't mind taking a short break, talking with them. It was a late afternoon in July, where Elisabeth, Lestrade, John and Sherlock sat talking cold cases, when Sally decided to join them.

"Why are you here?" She said, directed to Elisabeth. She tried to hold a stern mask, but failed, her feelings clearly showing. Anger, envy, irritation, and a bit of disappointment, all directed at Elisabeth.

"I work here. You should have noticed that by now. I'm normally downstairs in the archive, but I'm here every day." Elisa answered dryly, not even bothering to look at Sally. John couldn't read her expression, but it was clear to say she had expected this to come.

"No, why are you here? Who are you?" Sally's feelings had piled up over some time, and she had finally snapped. Elisabeth turned to face her, still sitting in her chair.

"I'm Elisabeth M. Ross, DI at New Scotland Yard, and your supervisor. Hasn't that been made clear to you?" Sally walked into the room, coming to a stop in front of Elisabeth.

"There's no file on you. There's no Elisabeth Ross in the system before the day you turned up!" Sally was somewhere between crying and angry now, but she wasn't very loud, she was halfway whispering. Elisabeth sighed and stood up, standing close to Sally.

"Lestrade, can I borrow your office for a few minutes? I need to talk with Donovan in privacy."

Lestrade nodded and walked outside, Sherlock and John following him without a word. He closed the door behind them, to the sound of a now crying Sally.

"We'll let them have a few minutes." Lestrade sighed again, before walking them to a nearby empty office.

"Elisabeth's official office, through she doesn't use it very often." He sat down in her chair.

"I have been expecting that for some time now." John sat down in another chair, dragging Sherlock with him, getting him to sit in the chair beside him.

"Why?"

"Think about it. If some unknown woman suddenly turns up, gets a superior position to the one you have, doesn't have an official record, is the same age, and makes your on/off-lover leave you, you'll snap like that at some point." Lestrade looked around the office. The only things that showed somebody used it, was the coat on hanger, and the belt-bag Elisabeth had gotten especially made to contain her gun, badge and a few other tools, since she hated to have a handbag with her to crime scenes, and her dresses or long shirts never had a pocket in them. She was still only wearing long cloth, which didn't leave even a fraction of skin to the eye, apart from her face. She even whore cloves at all times.

"She doesn't have an official record since her old record is in her old name, Elisabeth Lestrade. She changed her last name to her mother's maiden name to avoid confusing. But even if you looked her old record up, you wouldn't find much. She slipped through the steps quicker than any other has ever done. The supervisors wanted her on a step, where they actually could use her." Lestrade was wearing a somehow melancholy expression.

"They wanted my brain." Elisabeth had soundlessly walked into her office.

"I'm unable of forgetting things. I remember every word, gesture, face, every written line, every hidden sign I have seen since my childhood. Every word said about me, every rumour, I used the supervisors, and they used me, until I got tired of it, so I ran off to Afghanistan, got myself shot, and now I'm here, back again." She talked in a somewhat hard, cold tone, clearly remembering old details. She walked to her bag; the heels of her shoos clicking in the floor.

"Sally got a call; we have a bizarre case on our hands." Her voice softened up a bit, while she strapped her bag around her waist, letting it rest against her hips.

"John, can you do the forensic on the scene? I don't want Anderson anywhere near Sally for some time."

"Yes off course. What did he do?" John rose from the chair and walked toward the door.

"He dumped her to make a move on me, which I refused, off course, and then he tried to get her back. Sally is a sweet girl, she doesn't deserve this. I'll be driving with Sally, here's the address." She handled Lestrade a piece of paper before heading out, leaving them behind.

John and Sherlock arrived at the scene a bit after Lestrade, whom already had taken control. Sherlock had, again, refused to drive in a police car, and the taxi just wasn't as fast. The scene this time was an empty storage building near the dock. There didn't seem to be much business going on in the area, it looked more or less abandoned. There were a few dock workers in the area, but they had must likely been summoned by the sudden fuss. They ducked under the police tape unhindered; Donovan wasn't there to stop them for once. She wasn't even at the scene yet, and neither was Elisabeth. They entered the building, finding Lestrade next to the entrance, and not far from him, on the wall, hanging by the feet, the corpus of a woman, a tortured woman, by the look of the cuts and burns.

John had seen plenty of corpuses by now, a few of them with torture marks, but this one was far the worst. There were multiple knife wounds and burn marks, and a single bullet hole, directly through her brain, instead death.

Sherlock didn't take long to take in the scene around the body, and started to look at the victim. Careful not to touch the body, he examined the wounds, went over her jewellery, or lack of it.

"The murderer striped the victim of anything identifiable, but, she was unmarried, going by her lack of tan line on her hand. She's slim and quite fit; she did a lot of walking, so her job wasn't a sedentary one. Her hair is coloured, but not professionally, and it's been cut after her dead. It used to be at least half a meter longer. There are a few strains of hair on the floor, dropped by the killer." He pointed at a few hair stains on the ground.

"She died by the bullet hole in her head, before any of the wounds was inflicted. The lack of bleeding from them points toward a few hours after, and so does the lack of blood on the floor." John had stepped near the victim, and started his work.

"She's been dead for approximately 10 hours. We'll know more once we get her back."

"She's a prostitute. Her name is Jane Wilson, 26 years of age by now. She was arrested for involvement in a bank robbery 7 years ago, but was released due to lack of evidence, but her name stayed in the register thanks to the drugs she was in possession of at the time." Elisabeth had silently entered the storage building, not even the day's floor-length silk skirt could be heard against the rough concrete of the floor.

"I saw her when I went through the register over criminals in London, but you'll off course need to make an official documentation of her identity." She went to study the victim, as composed and stone-faced as ever, if not a tiny bit paler.

"You have seen this before." It wasn't a question; it was a statement, made by Sherlock, whose gaze now was at Elisabeth instead of the victim.

"Yes, yes off course. I've been in the army and in Afghanistan. I've seen plenty of torture victims before, some even worse than this. This one did at least die before the pain even started." She kneeled down, without touching the floor, just looking at the face of the woman.

"To bad some has to go this way, but our job would be boring without." She mumbled, mostly to herself.

"Either way, this one reminds me of a few cold cases I've been tying together back at the Yard the last few days. The wounds inflicted after the death and the ever present sigh from the killer, I'm amazed the cases haven't been tied together earlier."

"Sign?" Lestrade asked; he had kept himself in the background as so often before when Sherlock took his turn, deluding everything.

"Ah yes, sign. It's a bit hard to see, since half of it isn't carved into the flesh. Here, let me show you." She found a small ultraviolet pen from her belt-bag, and pointed it at the corpse. Between the cuts and burns, now visible thanks to the ultraviolet light were fluorescent marks drawn in a pattern mostly resembling a three-year old drawing. Lestrade, clearly still not seeing the sigh, needed a bit of guidance from his cousin.

"It's upside down. It's the Japanese sigh for love. It's drawn as a combination of the cuts and burns and the fluorescent marks, drawn on the body. And if my theory is correct, is the marks drawn with a fluorescent pen of the same type as some youngsters use to draw on them self with, before going to party." Elisabeth stood up again, handling the pen to Lestrade.

"I'm going back to the Yard to get the cold cases out. Can I borrow one of your officers as a driver? I'll take one that doesn't seem busy." Elisabeth walked toward the door, but stopped just before leaving the building.

"You're not taking Sally?" Lestrade didn't turn to look at her.

"No, she's not here. I made her go home to get a few hours rest and come back in later to work with me. Yes, I have the authority to do that." Elisabeth had walked of before Lestrade had the chance to say anything.


	5. Eye

_AN: As un-brit-picked as ever, and not betaed as well._

_Disclaimer: Do not own, etc. etc. etc., I'm just having a bit of fun.._

She moved swiftly through the archives, remembering each case by their number, pointing box after box out for the clerks working in the archives to move to her office, no words were spoken or sounds was made; just the recognizable clicking sound of her heels against the floor and the soft silk fabric of her skirt rubbing against itself and her legs, while she walked.

Neither Lestrade nor Sally was back when she retunes to her office, so she starts to write up the highlights of the cold cases she had found, on a blackboard which she had the clerks bring up as well. When Sally returns an hour later, after a bath and a change of cloth, Elisabeth noted, looking much better than just a few hours earlier, she sends her for coffee and tea, while she herself continues her work. When Sally is back, they sit down, Elisabeth taking a small break.

"Uhm... Thank you for what you did, and I'm sorry for what I said." Sally looked down into her cup of coffee, as to hide her blushing. She wasn't used to neither apologizing nor thanking anybody.

"Never mind, just remember not to look in your supervisors files again, not many will brush it off or forgive one for it, but I can understand why you did it, and I'm not surprised by your reaction to it, but I think I have a few things to explain because of it. As you may know, I worked here at the Yard in the time I graduate from the police academy to I stopped for my little trip to Afghanistan, that was two years work, not much, but I managed to climb the stairs quite quickly because of my brain. But in that time, I had so many collision with the Chief and other supervisors, that my files was full of remarks, and although most of them has been removed, I didn't feel the need to dig up in the past again. So I decided to get a new file made. I had changed my name in the meantime, from Elisabeth Lestrade to Elisabeth M. Ross, my mother's maiden name, to avoid confusion, because Lestrade and I would have the same name otherwise." Elisabeth finished her small story with a well deserved sip of her tea, before returning the cup to the table, to finish her work at the blackboard. Sally helped her, bringing up pictures of the earlier crime scenes when Elisabeth needed them.

Lestrade returned an hour later together with Sherlock, John had gotten to work at Barts to do the forensic work with Molly, deciding two would work quicker than one. Sally took her trip for more coffee and tea, before catching Lestrade and Sherlock for a briefing in Elisabeth's office. She seated them, before starting the briefing.

"I've found five cold cases, which can be linked to this one, all of them less than four years old. The first victim was a woman in her early forties, she was found in a park in the winter three years ago. She didn't have any marks on her body, but she was shot in the head like the other victims, and by her side, in the snow, was written a word, where only half of it can be seen on the pictures, because some incompetent officer forgot to take pictures before stepping on it." She pointed at a large picture on the first blackboard.

"The victim was an upper class woman, with money as grass and haughty, if the statements from her friends and neighbours are correct. Second victim was the biker type, a young man, barely twenty years old, found in the boxing club where he usually went, shot in the head. In his case, there was written a word on his right arm with a fluorescent gel, which wasn't discovered before the lap found it, and by then was the word nearly unreadable. Third victim was a model, found at the hotel where she lived at that time, shot in the head again, this time the word was written on her head, but like in case two, it wasn't discovered before it was too late. Forth victim was a banker, found in a backyard, shot in the head, in an area known for its many addictives and shady businesses. In his case was the mark on a little piece of paper beside him; a picture of a very yellow sun. And then the lasts victim, a prostitute, with the sigh 'love' carved and written on her." While explaining, she pointed out the different pictures and sighs written on the blackboards.

"That is not all your findings." Sherlock, whom had been sitting silently until now, commented.

"No. I have deluded the sighs on the victims and the meaning of them. I wasn't entirely sure earlier, but this last murder made me sure. We are dealing with someone whom is fascinated by the seven deadly sins: pride, envy, wrath, sloth, greed, gluttony and lust, and it are someone whom likes symbols. Today's victim had the sigh 'love' carved into her body, love is often related to lust nowadays, especially since what drives people to go to prostitutes is lust, we have the first sin deluded there. The first victim was an upper class woman, where half of the word 'human' still could be read in the snow. Humans are the only specie which feels pride, and since pride is said to be the mother of all sins, it makes sense for this one to be the first murder. Number two had the word 'rage' written next to him in runes, runes known from the Vikings whom can be seen as a symbol for rage, or wrath, the victim was the biker type, there you have your connection. Number three was a model, with the word 'grass' written next to her in Arabic. Grass is green, green is the colour symbol for envy, and the victim was a model, a lot of envy in that business. Number four was a banker found in a backyard with a yellow sun on a piece of paper. Yellow is the colour for greed, he clearly wanted more than his share, he could have been a smuggler. There you have them all, the only two left is sloth and gluttony." Elisabeth flipped down in her chair, catching her breath after the long, quick, talk.

"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant," Elisabeth couldn't help jumping in her seat, she hadn't realised John had entered the office, and he was only a meter from her. She turned her head and smiled at him, catching a glint of Sherlock in the progress, seeing him sending John a not-so-happy glance; could he really be jealous because John had praised her instead of him for once?

"John, I didn't see you. Finished with our victim?" She smiled at him, trying to irritate Sherlock just a little bit more, just for the fun of it.

"Yes, and we got her identity confirmed." He gave her the reports, which she read in just a few seconds, before giving them to Lestrade.

"How can you read it so fast?" Sally looked at her with a gaze of amazement.

"Since I can't forget even a word I have read, reading over it in a glance is enough. It's quite helpful when it comes to learning languages; it only takes about a month to learn it." She quickly waved the subject away; she had been through that explanation just one too many times.

"I have been wondering for some time, Elisabeth. Is there something wrong with your left eye?" John had sat down in a chair next to Sherlock, taking his hand in his. Elisabeth turned to face him, amazed, and strangely enough, slightly embarrassed by him discovering it after only a few weeks. Lestrade seemed surprised; he had been reading the reports, but was now looking directly at Elisabeth.

"I'm amazed by your skills doctor. Yes, I'm blind on my left eye. How did you figure it out?"

"You didn't realise I had walked into the room, even though I had been her for some time now, and I have been on your left side the entire time, so it must be that side. The way you walk and when you touch things as well: two eyes gives the ability to estimate distance, so people with only one functional eye will have some problems with estimating the distance between them self and a nearby object." Elisabeth just nodded, the deduction was correct.

"What? When did that happen?" Lestrade was looking at her with a look of confusion and concern.

"No you didn't forget, I've never told you. Only a few knows, and since it doesn't give me any problems anymore, I normally doesn't remember it myself. But I thought you had guessed there was something wrong, since I had to ask for a driver to get back to my office. Had I still been able to use both my eyes, I would just have taken your keys." She smiled at him, with a look of innocence and amusement. Lestrade signed, working with one insane genius was hard, but two of them were a challenge, even for him.

"Next time, do at least tell me first. Could you tell me when and how? And does your sister know?"

"It was about a year ago when I was in Afghanistan. I was shot four times and hit in the head as well. When I woke up again, back in the camp, I couldn't see anything on my left eye. I didn't think much of it at that time, but I had it looked at when I came back to London, and it seems like the hit damaged a few nerve cells, and made me loos my eyesight on left eye." She had a soft expression now, remembering an old memory.

"My sister knows. I don't think I would be able to keep that sort of things from her, it's in my medical information after all; she likely checks them often. I have no doubt she always knows what I'm doing. She's such a worrywart. It's necessary to have a driving licence to work in the police force, so I haven't got it cancelled, but relax, I won't use it. Now, how about actually doing something productive?"


	6. Ripples in the water

AN: un-brit-picked, un-betaed, and just for a note: this was written before series 2..

Disclamer: I own nothing but my cat.

Days went by without a breakthrough in the case. The forensic didn't give any new details; the toxic screening didn't find any drugs in Jane Wilson's system, no foreign DNA on the body or anywhere near it either, and the CCTV in the area was funny enough being updated, so there was no video from the entire day. Sally had went through the profiles of every worker with the possibility of being in the area at the time, they dug up everything and yet nothing about all the victims. The only thing they had in common, were being in London at the time of their death. They had no progress with the signs and words either. All of it seemed pretty random, apart from the connection between the signs and words on the victims, and the fact that no of the victims had been filmed by a CCTV camera around the time of their death. At day three after Jane Wilson's murder, Elisabeth had to shout time-out, and dragged them to the nearest park, for a short walk and some less-low-on-oxygen air. She managed to drag Lestrade, Sally, John and Sherlock with her, John and Sherlock were meeting with them at a daily point at the Yard, to share the information each of them found through their search. They had only got Sherlock to agree to that deal, by making John help them. Elisabeth sat down next to a small pond, flicking small stones into the water. She was for once not wearing a dress, but long, copper coloured trousers, a high-neck, loose shirt without sleeves in a beautiful sea-blue colour, and long silken gloves in a golden copper, just barely covering her scares, and in clear contrast to her almost white skin. In the three days that had passed since Sally's small break-down, she and Elisabeth had become good friends, and when Elisabeth had realised Sally's skills with a computer, a had a fast hand over the keyboard and an understanding of the systems at the Yard, she had almost picked her up, and made her do all the computer work in her office, while she herself took care of the blackboards and papers.

Sally flicked a stone into the still water in the pond, causing ripples to form. She flicked in another one, and then another one, causing waves of ripples to form and collide with each other.

"Ripples in the pond," Elisabeth muted, flicking in another stone.

"What?" John, whom had been busy keeping Sherlock from being bored in the park, seemed alarmed by her words.

"Pond, John, pond, not pool." Lestrade assured John, remembering the incident at the pool a bit too clearly. At that instance, something seemed to click for him.

"Elisabeth; in what order did the symbols appear? Which countries could they represent?"

"English, runes, Arabic, a sun and Japanese or Chinese." She didn't need even a second to think.

"First one must represent UK, second: Scandinavia, third: the Middle East, most likely, the forth was a sun, which most likely represents Japan, the land of the sun, and the last one, could be either a Japanese or Chinese sign." She looked up from the pond, to glance at Lestrade, whom was standing behind her.

"It's getting further and further away from the UK, like a ripple in the pond get's further and further away from the centre."

"Like a disease becoming a pandemic, or a business going worldwide. But something stopped it last spring, since the last two signs could be the same country, or at least countries not very far from each other. If it's a business, there must have been something to hinder its growth." Elisabeth couldn't help wonder if they had gotten a lead just by going for a walk in a park.

"Moriarty." It was more of a snarl then a word, coming from Sherlock.

"Moriarty?" Elisabeth looked at Sherlock and John, standing close, clearly having some bad memories. She then looked at Sally and Lestrade, whom looked somewhere between frustrated, and totally lost.

"Moriarty is a wicked man of a consulting criminal." Lestrade somehow managed to snarl the last few words.

"Yeah yeah, I know that." Elisabeth waved that away, while standing up to look properly at Sherlock and John.

"I know all that, I'm not asking who, but which. Which Moriarty are you referring to?" Getting dump looks as a result, Elisabeth had to sigh.

"Moriarty is only a surname, not a person. There's more than one person with the name Moriarty, I'm just asking which one." Sherlock had managed to gather his mind, turning into a stone mask again.

"How many Moriarty's are there?"

"Four I know of. Oh well, there's only three alive by now. It seems like it's never been a big family, so there aren't many to get to know. Which one are you seeking?" Elisabeth had to admit she had expected this conversation to come at some point, but she had hoped it could wait a bit.

"How do you know them?" Now it was Lestrade to ask the questions.

"That is a story which is somewhat simple, but still rather confusing." She didn't turn to face him, keeping her eyes on Sherlock.

"Which Moriarty are you seeking?" She kept her eye on him, trying to read him, which turned out to be more or less impossible, so she gave up.

"Okay okay, you are most likely dealing with Jimmy-boy, this does seem like his kind of work. And it does explain the one year without a victim to mark his progress; he didn't really get a chance to get out of the house. Well, this gives us the motive behind the man behind the killer, not the killer itself, so it doesn't really help us much." Elisabeth sat back down, flicking stones in the water again.

"What do you mean with 'didn't get a chance to get out of the house'?" John, keeping an eye on Sherlock, asked her.

"Well... It happened before I got to know him, but I'm quite sure you all remember the bomb and the pool last spring? Thought so... Well, I don't think he counted in the possibility that Sherlock really would shoot the bomb, or more likely, he didn't think you would hit it. So he was pretty badly hit by the blast. He was still in bed when I went to meet him, and I wouldn't let him out of my sight and let him do any business until we returned to London, a few weeks ago. He never did tell me exactly what caused the damage, but it's not very hard to guess. The official story was a gas explosion at his office; they didn't want to tell Lilly the truth, and I can't blame them, she's to innocence for the truth about her family." Elisabeth casually flicked in another stone, keeping her eyes on the water, mind calm and hands occupied.

"Are you going to tell us the full story?" It was Sally whom asked. Elisabeth had nearly forgotten her while being busy looking for reactions in Lestrade and Sherlock.

"Well, yes, why not. It's a bit long, so please do sit down, Lestrade, Sherlock and John. My first encounter with the Moriarty family happened even before I was born. My mother was of noble family, and she was kidnapped when she was in her early twenties, by the Moriarty family, they were criminals already back then, so Jimmy-boy doesn't have it from strangers. So, James Moriarty, Jimmy-boy's father, kidnapped my mother, raped her, and handled her back when they paid. It was still unknown that she was pregnant, and nobody found it strange when they realised it either, since she was married by then. So she gave birth to me, and nobody realised I wasn't my father's child, since I looked so much like my mother. So I grew up, got a younger sister, I had a perfectly normal childhood, or as normal as one can be with a brain like mine. I could talk ten languages by the age of seven, could every subject in math by the age of 12, and attended lectures at Cambridge at the age of 15. It was by then I started to realise I was different from my family. My sister was highly intelligent as well, and attended Cambridge by the age of 16, but I still had the felling of not having exactly the same roots, so I questioned my mother and got the answer she never had told anybody else, not even my father knew she had been raped. So I got my answer and I got a goal for my future: to meet my biological father. When my parents died, my sister had just started at Cambridge; I needed to get away for some time, so I jointed the Military for a few years. When I came back, I started at the police school as the same time as my sister found a job, so we found a nice little place to share. And in little, I mean a villa. Either way, I got my education and started at New Scotland Yard, worked my way up in rang, until I became a DI, where I finally could use the systems good enough to locate my father. I decided to send him a mail with the message: "Hey dad, I'm quite sure you know who I am and I want to have a talk with you. Give me a call." I don't know what I expected, but he didn't answer me. Either way, I got sick of playing doll for the Yard, so I joined the army again, got hit quite bad, and came back to Great Brittan to be nursed back to health by my sister and fiancé. After half a year, my unknown sister, Lilly, called me. She had got my number through my father, asking her to call me and invite me to Sweden. He was dying, cancer, and wanted to at least apologise to me for what he did. I went to Sweden, where I meet not one, but two persons literally tied to their beds. Father was a sleepwalker, and Lilly had tied Jimmy-boy up, since she couldn't get him to stay in bed without. James, my father, had relocated to Sweden shortly after my mother's kidnapping, got married and had two children, Jim and Lilly. Jim took over his business as a criminal, making it international, and Lilly took after her mother, becoming a nurse in Sweden. She knows nothing of her brother or fathers business, and neither did her mother. How they managed to keep it hidden, I don't know, but to be honest, Lilly is anything but smart. She's sweet and lovely, but she isn't too bright. So, father died a month ago, we held the funeral, and went our different ways. Lilly stayed in her father's house in Sweden; that was a part of her inheritance, Jimmy-boy got full control over the family business, if you can call it that, and I got more or less all the jewellery, dresses and a major part of the money inheritance, as if I didn't have enough of all that already. Never mind. Jimmy-boy and I travelled back to London, and he disappeared before I could say goodbye to him, leaving only the message 'don't try to contact me, I'll contact you later.'" Elisabeth sighed, finally getting a deep breath after telling the major parts of her own life story.

"You won't find anything in Sweden, I don't mind telling you where Lilly lives, but Jimmy-boy had disappeared again, leaving no trace."

"You did plan to tell me at some point, right?" Lestrade sat down behind her when asked to sit, and was quite glad he did so, he was quite sure so much information otherwise would have made him fall over. He laid a hand on her shoulder when asking, to get her attention, and she pushed into the touch, like an overgrown cat.

"At some point, yes, but I didn't plan for it just yet. My connection to the family does not cloud my judgement, it had the opposite effect. I don't want to see my brother waste his intelligent being a criminal, I most of all want to see him use it for more practical things. It's a silly wish of mine, and I know it isn't possible to turn him over now, so instead, I want him gone. But most of all, I want to do it myself, since he's of my blood. I haven't known him for long, but he's still my brother." She lay back, looking up in the sky, using Lestrade as a pillow. She had done so with her sister and Lestrade when they all were children, many years ago, and so, it didn't feel strange to either of them, just natural for somehow.

"I'm going to take him down, no matter what, and it's going to require your help, Sherlock." She looked up at him.

"Use my knowledge, brain and memory as an external hard disk, and use your own to find him. I can't do this alone, and neither can you, whether you're going to admit it or not. Do what the two of you do best, and let me handle the rest." She mumbled, falling asleep in Lestrade's lap. The last glimpse she got was Sherlock nodding, John looked determined to help, Lestrade sighing and Sally just looking lost.


	7. A good nights sleep

"Hypersomnia?" Sally had been rather surprised when she saw Elisabeth fall asleep in the middle of the park, she haven't seemed tired or sleepy in any way.

"Narcolepsy." Sherlock butted in.

"Doctor, what's your diagnose?" Lestrade asked; he hadn't moved from his position after Elisabeth had fallen asleep. John kneeled down next to him, took her pulse and listened to her breathing.

"She most likely overused her brain, and her body cooperated with it, by making her sleep." John rose again, taking Sherlocks hand unconscious.

"Why would it do that?" Sally asked while she rose as well.

"She said she was unable to forget even a single thing she had seen or heard in her live, so she is most likely born without a short-term memory, or at least a reduced one. She must have developed a mix between a short-term memory and a long-term memory, which technically speaking saves everything directly at the hard disk, or in her long-term memory, unable to sort important from unimportant knowledge. When something had entered the long-term memory, it's nearly impossible to remove again, and just the intake of imputes from all her senses must be enormous. Since she is born with a high intelligence as well, I will assume she needs quite a lot of sleep, to sort it all out, catalogue it and put it away correctly." Sherlock laid his arms around John, rather proud of John's medical skills and knowledge, even when it wasn't his field of expertise.

"That will explain why it took a few seconds to remember you John, at the first crime scene. The data of Afghanistan was most likely hidden quite well, and took a few seconds too dug out." He halfway whispered in John's ear. Lestrade decided to ignore them and got up with Elisabeth safely sleeping in his arms. To his surprise was she quite a bit lighter than he thought, wondering why he asked John, whom; not very surprising, had an answer ready for him.

"They brain normally takes up around 20% of the energy we consume, but with a brain like hers, I would think it takes quite a bit more, so it must be hard to keep a descent weight. She eats quite a bit after all, unlike Sherlock, whom just won't eat while on a case, she possible can eat more than a few of the officers while working, and she would need to keep an eye on what she eats, to get enough energy. But for now, she just needs sleep." Lestrade weighted her in his arms again for a few seconds, before holding her close again, keeping her safe.

"How long will she sleep?"

"Could be anything, but I would assume around ten to twelve hours. She did collapse after all, so she must have been cutting back on her sleep the last few days, trying to keep up with all of you."

"If so… It'll be better to let her sleep in her own bed. There's nowhere at the Yard she can sleep for so long. Please take her home and keep an eye on her for me, John." He handled Elisabeth over to John, whom lifted her with surprising ease. She snuggled closer to him in her sleep, resting her head against his shoulder and neck, making Sherlock slightly jealous, through he never would admit to it.

They parted with Lestrade and Sally after a few more words, catching a taxi to Baker Street, neither of them had the desire to walk with a sleeping Elisabeth. Mrs. Hudson unlocked the door to 221C, but didn't follow them down. It wasn't hard to find her bedroom, but its content surprised them both. She had a soft bed and a rather huge closet, no surprise there, but the IV-stand next to the bed and the blackboard next to it surprised them both. John gently laid her on the bed, before turning to read the text on the blackboard.

_**Dear who-ever brought me home (I'm guessing: John). Well' I guess my collapse was a bit of a surprise, but it's not uncommon. I will be asleep for quite a long time, and will need an IV-drip to secure enough fluid and energy in my body. I have an IV-hook in right hand, hidden under my glove, please use it and hook me up to an IV-bag, they can be found in the box in my closet. I won't mind if you'll change my cloth for me, I'll be uncomfortable sleeping in too much clothing. It'll take about 6 hours before the bag is empty, and I would appreciate it, if you would return and hook a new one up to me. Thank you.**_

The message was signed _**Elisabeth M. Ross**_ and dated the same morning.

"Sherlock, would you take a fluid-bag from her closet, as well as some sleepwear." John gently removed her gloves first, not surprised by the two scars on her arms. There was a simple IV-hook in her hand as she had written. He inspected it, not finding any faults at all, before starting to remove her clothing. He didn't get far before he got yet another surprise. When he gently removed her long shirt and caught a glimpse of her stomach, he was greeted by multiple angry red scars and only few square centimetres of clear white skin. Her entire stomach was covered by old scars from knife- , gun- and burn wounds as well as formerly infected skin. It continued all the way up past her chest, which didn't seem to have taken much damage, but he doubted that, and unto her neck. Her back was covered in burn scars and a few scars from knives, and when he proceeded to remove her trousers, the scars continued downwards, all the way to just above her knees. When he inspected her lower legs, he found multiple faded scars, and so did he on her arms, all from knife wounds. When Sherlock came back with the sleepwear and fluid-bag, he didn't comment, but the surprise, and even horror, in his eyes was clear. He pushed both things into John's arms, before removing himself from the bedroom. John carefully dressed her in the soft silken dress, covered her with a blanket and hooked her up to the fluid-bag, waiting for the fluid slowly start enter her bloodstream.

John walked into 221B a few minutes later, finding Sherlock huddled up in the sofa, nose deep in one of John's books. John removed his coat and shoes before sitting down next to Sherlock.

"She's a torture victim." After a few minutes Sherlock laid down the book, stating his mind. John nodded.

"Yes."

"Afghanistan."

"That's the most likely." They sat in silence for some time, neither bothered to talk about the obvious. Sometime later, John rose and walked to the kitchen, brewing two cups of tea, before returning to the sofa, handling one of them to Sherlock whom now had his computer on the lap, flicking between pages at the internet. John turned on the telly while drinking his tea, finding nothing of interest, but deciding it would do as background noise.

John walked down the stairs to 221C approximately six hours after he had left it earlier, finding the door open and the light turned on. Wondering if Elisabeth already had woken up, he called before walking into her living room. Getting no answer, he proceeded through her apartment, hearing noise from a not-yet boiling kettle, he entered the kitchen, finding it empty he went into her bedroom. Elisabeth was still sleeping peaceful in the bed, but next to the bed was a visitor, a women dressed mostly in black. She looked up from Elisabeth.

"Anthea?" Mycroft's PA turned her attention back to Elisabeth, her Blackberry strangely missing from her hands and attention.

"Hera, Dr. Watson, it's Hera today." She was sitting on one of the chairs from the kitchen, holding Elisabeth's hand and stroking her hair. John could hear the kettle whistle in the kitchen, and when Hera made no notice to go make tea, he took care of it. He came back again a few minutes later with two mugs of tea, handling one to Hera. She studied the tea for a second; always being suspicious of the things given her had become a habit when she started working with Mycroft. John took a look at the IV-bag still attached to Elisabeth. It was nearly empty, so John sat down his mug and went to fetch another one.

"I take it you know her." He said with his back to Hera.

"Yes." She didn't turn to look at him, keeping her eyes at Elisabeth, still stroking her hair.

"Can I ask how?" He took a fluid-bag, inspected it and turned back to the bed. Hera didn't answer at first but looked up to watch John switch the bags.

"She's my sister." John's eyes filched to her, surprised.

"Lestrade must have sent you a message then." Hera shot a glance at John.

"Greg? No. There are surveillance cameras in her apartment." John tried not to react to it, but his expression must have been a giveaway.

"She asked for it herself, so I could keep track of her when she is alone." She slowly sipped the tea John had made while holding Elisabeth's hand.

"Does she need constant surveillance?" John picked up his mug again and leaned against the doorframe.

"No, it's her attempt to keep me from worrying about her. She often went into a coma-like stage when she came back from Afghanistan because of her injuries." She smiled a slightly sorrowful smile, but her eyes were kind, full of memories.

"You're quite talkative today." John sipped a bit of his tea, keeping an eye on them.

"Please, most women love talking about the people they care for." Hera emptied her mug and sat it down, returning her full attention to Elisabeth.

"Does Mycroft know you're here?"

"What do you expect?"

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Go back to Sherlock; I'll keep an eye at her for a bit longer." John nodded and went back to 221B thinking it was surprising he still could be surprised.

When John returned to Elisabeth's apartment again six hours later, at seven in the morning, he found her awake, sitting up in her bed, drinking from a glass of water. Hera was nowhere in sight.

"You're awake again."

"Yes, awake, but not out of bed just yet." She gestured to the bed.

"A few more minutes and I'll be up and walking again." She emptied her glass and sat it down beside the bed. She then removed the tube from the by now empty IV-bag before starting to flex her muscles, apparently checking if everything still was working. Seeing John's questions expression, she just smiled before explaining.

"The body's survival instinct put's the brain before the body, as you would know, so I can't move, at least not as fluent as normal, when I wake up, there have to go a few minutes with flexing my muscles. It wasn't water I was drinking; it's more like thin, liquid sugar. It will keep me up for about half an hour, so I can get something to eat." She picked up the glass and threw it at him, before she threw the blanket aside and stepped out of bed. John grabbed the glass looked at the few drops of liquid in it. The smell was strong and sweet. He dipped a finger in the liquid, and licked it of his finger. It was sweet, very sweet; morbidly sweet even. He couldn't help the shudder running down his spine from the surprise. Elisabeth didn't see this; she had turned to the closet, losing the nightgown on her way. She found a pair of simple trousers and a simple jumper as well as some lingerie.

"Could you make some tea while I'll take a shower?" She didn't wait for answer before disappearing into her bedroom. John walked into the kitchen, shortly wondering if it was normal to be so familiar with your neighbours flat after only a few days, but he dismissed the thought and turned to put on the kettle.

Elisabeth entered the kitchen a few minutes later, her hair enmeshed in a towel. She headed directly to the fridge, finding something to eat and sat down at the table with the cuppa John had made her. She quickly ate her food, quite a bit more than most people would find sane to eat. John was sitting by the table as well, keeping a constant eye at her.

"I'm not going to collapse again John. There's nothing to worry about. Have you got any sort of news from Lestrade?"

"No, nothing," They were both silence while they sipped the last of their tea; neither were in a hurry for the discussion floating in the air. Elisabeth was the first one to give in. She sat down her mug and turned to face John.

"It seems I owe you an explanation. Where should I start?"

"From the beginning?" John sat down his mug as well.

"Uh, that's fare back; it's going to take a while then. Do you think Sherlock would want to hear it as well?" She couldn't help laugh a bit.

"Most likely."

"Go get him then, I'll brew a pot of tea and we can sit in the living room." John nodded and went upstairs, returning a few minutes later with Sherlock. They sat down in the living room; Elisabeth took a few folders and laid them down.

"I'll most likely need them at some point. Now, where do we start? Ah yes, the beginning. Everything began while I still was a baby. I ate quite a bit more then the most babies does, but I didn't gain as much weight, and I seemed to learn everything quite a bit quicker than most babies, so they, my parents and the doctors at the hospital I was emitted to quite often, because I went into this coma-like sleep at times, agreed on getting a CAT-scan, and from then on, everything changed. The part of my brain which takes care of my short-term memories was underdeveloped, and to compensate for it, the part of my brain which takes care of long-term memories had developed to take care of it. So, they figured out what was wrong, figured out how to deal with it and so on. Nothing special happened; my sister didn't have the same syndrome. When we got older, my parents and doctors decided to test how well my memories worked, so we started to travel while the hospital worked on a solution to my constant need for energy. I should maybe say that my father was a doctor and owned the hospital, not that it matters much. But we travelled, stayed at a place for a few weeks, always different countries or different areas of a country. And their test worked, I quickly learned all the languages and dialects, and I had fun doing so. While we travelled, they developed the highly concentrated sugar solution which is in my IV-bags and in the glass I drank of earlier. It anything but dangerous to others, it's just sugar, but there's quite a lot of it in it. So, years passed by, my parents passed away, I went into the military, which was where I encountered my first real challenge: to get the right amount of energy, while being overseas, so the hospital developed something new for me. It was still in family hands by the way. They developed this:" She took a small container from a pocket; it was designed to give tablets with, one at the time. She clicked on the top, and a small pill, fell out.

"This is pure, concentrated energy, about as strong as the content of an entire IV-bag. I'm not sure what it's made of, but it works. I just have to consume it together with some food; it's too strong for my system otherwise. It's safe to use, but it'll never be as good as eating regularly food, so I only use it when I'm in need of it. So I went to Afghanistan, worked as a translator, came back safe, went into the police force, meet my fiancé, went back to Afghanistan, and was caught and tortured for two weeks. I was out on a normal patrol, walking with some children, when we were ambushed. I and one of the men were taken as hostages, one died, and the rest managed to flee. So, we were tortured for two weeks, kept away in a small cell, tortured for information. I didn't get enough energy, so I entered a stage between awake and my coma-like sleep, only kept safe by my emergency circuit, awake enough to answer questions and keep myself alive, but not awake enough to be able to move properly. We were saved two weeks later, but they managed to shoot us first. I survived, he didn't. It was about the same time you were shot John." She opened a folder, and gave an x-ray picture to John, whom held it up against the light.

"Before I went to Afghanistan the first time I had had in-operated an emergency circuit to keep myself alive in case of extreme emergency, like a kidnapping. I'm born with only one lung and one kidney, so there was space enough to use of. Its special made of plastic, so a metal detector can't find it. It measures my blood sugar level, and in the case it gets too low, it kicks in and gives me energy. It's a liquid form of the tablets, and I'm having check up's on it every month. There's always a little liquid in it, but far from the same amount as when I was overseas." She sipped a bit of her tea, discovering it had cooled down a bit too much for her liking.

"I'm a science project walking around with a brain which can be both a blessing and a curse at the same time." She emptied her mug, before refilling it with still steaming hot tea and happily starting to sip it.

"So now you know the truth, and I'll only ask one thing of you for it. Don't tell anyone. Lestrade doesn't know, I haven't been able to tell him yet. My sister knows, but well, somebody has to look after me, but Lestrade doesn't. Jimmy-boy does, and so does Lilly, though she doesn't know the truth. It's convenient how many building just suddenly busts into flames." They sat in silence for some time, Sherlock and John speechless, and Elisabeth waiting. Minutes went by, before Sherlock finally opened his mouth, with a question she didn't expect.

"Who is the last Moriarty?"

"Huh?" Elisabeth blinked at him, surprised.

"You never did tell us who the last Moriarty was. Who is it? A companion of his?" Sherlock looked fierce at her. She reached into her pocket and threw her police badge at him.

"I thought you would have realised by now. Elisabeth M. Ross. Elisabeth Moriarty Ross. I'm the last Moriarty."


	8. Everything comes to an end

_AN: un-brit-picked and un-betaed._

_Disclaimer: Don't own, etc. etc. etc._

"_I'm the last Moriarty."_

The words rung in the air longer than anyone would have found possible. Sherlock was for once, again, speechless and John had for some reason decided to cope with it by keeping his attention on the x-ray he still was sitting with.

"I'm the last Moriarty, Sherlock; I'm no companion of his. I took the name in honour of my father whom I would never have existed without. He did so much bad, but thanks to him I can do so much good." Before Sherlock had time to talk back, the familiar sound of a phone ringing interrupted them. Elisabeth went to take it, having left it in her bedroom. She soon came back, still talking.

"Yes. Yes, I'll tell them. We'll meet you there." She clicked her phone shut and turned to Sherlock and John.

"We got a two more victims located near each only a few streets from here, in the nearby church. Go fetch your jackets, we can walk there together." They quickly disappeared out the door while Elisabeth found a pair of shoes, not stiletto heels for once, and a jacket. She shut of the light while dialling another number.

"Hallo...? Ah, Rose today? Nice choice. Anyway, he properly knows; but we got a lead. Could you ask him to pick me up at the church when we're done? Thank you and I'll see you there." While she had talked, she had walked up the stairs and meet with John and Sherlock. They greeted Mrs Hudson before walking out.

They reached the church about ten minutes later, it was already taped up but Elisabeth got them in without them having to wait for once. They walked to Lestrade, whom was standing next to a grave, looking down at its content. Elisabeth walked up to him and looked down in the hole. At the bottom was the body of a middle aged man.

"He entered the grave a bit too early it seems. You've got anything yet?"

"No, you banned Anderson, so we had to wait for John. Where did he go by the way, neither of us has seen him lately?" Elisabeth couldn't keep back a smirk.

"Oh, he was relocated to Cardiff, lent would be the right word, there should arrive somebody else to take his place at some time today. I don't know when he'll be back, but it's not going to be anytime soon. Now, John, do you have anything yet?" John had jumped down to the victim.

"Course of dead, strangulation, the body's not completely cold yet, so he hasn't been dead for long. And for the message, it's nicely written on a piece of paper." He pointed at a small piece of paper on the ground beside the victim.

"It's all done in a hurry, not the same perfectionism as the others."

"And I think I know the reason for it. Lestrade, was there a second victim?"

Lestrade leaded them into the nearby church, where the second victim was lying on the floor in a blood pool. He was dressed in the priests gown, and the cause of dead was clear, a knife straight to the heart. Suddenly everything made sense. Elisabeth looked at Sherlock whom clearly had figured it out as well.

"Lestrade, meet our killer." Elisabeth gestured to the last victim.

"He's the local priest and the murder." Elisabeth couldn't help smile.

"Sloth and gluttony, that's the two last sins needed to be fulfilled. Sherlock, would you have the honour?"

"First murder, strangulation, messy, no need to cover up anymore, he's done his deed. He kills himself, taking the last sin upon himself, sloth. Sloth, wasting and lazy, it's highly possible he had talents he didn't use, wasted, lazy; he wasted so many lives as well as his own."

"The first victim, the man in the grave is gluttony, we'll most likely figure that one out when we get's his profile. The priest is sloth, and the man behind it all is Moriarty. At least of you have to believe the piece of paper up here." Elisabeth had walked to the altar, where a small piece of paper with the beautifully written word '_Let's play, dear sister'_ written upon it.

"Lestrade, count this case as closed. And I'll have to go now, I have a date." She walked past them and out the door. Lestrade and Sherlock followed her.

"Wait. Elisabeth, you know something. What's the meaning behind this message?" She stopped, but didn't turn to face them.

"Jimmy called me this morning. I knew of this crime scene before we were called, it's his little present to me, as he told me." Turning in place, she faced them, expression neutral but words bitter.

"He simply called me to tell me, 'the game is afloat, dear sister. Let's play a game of chess: pawn moves.' Our game as begun and it won't be over until one of us is gone. We each have a set of players to help us; but unlike him, I don't play alone; my pieces have a mind of its own. Whether it's to my advantage or his, we'll see in time." She turned and walk out of the graveyard again.

"You're leaving already?" Lestrade followed her.

"Yes? All my work is done here, and don't forget, it's my day of today." She waved at them when a shiny black car parked outside the police tape. The door opened and revealed Mycroft and his assistant. Sherlock stared, he had suspected this. Elisabeth effortlessly slipped into the car, and it drove off.

_AN: Well, the ending were a bit hurried for my taste, but I kinda lost the will to write more back then, when I wrote it. Maybe I'll continue it someday, I don't know yet… And if somebody actually is reading this, I'm impressed… _


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